


My Sister's Words

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, House Tully, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edmure Tully didn't really remember his mother. But he knew he would never forget his sister, Cat.</p><p>Catelyn Tully Stark as seen through Edmure Tully's eyes through the years. Canon compliant, with speculations after A Dance With Dragons. Spoilers for all books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sister's Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thespacebetween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespacebetween/gifts).



> The dates I used for this fic are taken from A Wiki of Ice and Fire and I use them primarily to give a sense of the passage of time and events. At the beginning of the fic, Edmure is two, Lysa is nine, and Catelyn is eleven.

275AL

Cat is crying. Cat never cries so Edmure is scared. He climbs up onto her lap and she holds him tightly. He doesn’t know what to do so he calls for Mama. She can make Cat feel better.

“Mama! Mama!” he calls out, but she doesn’t come. And the more he calls for her, the tighter Cat hugs him and the harder she cries.

Years later he will realize this is his earliest memory, and that it is the day his mother died trying to bring his younger brother into the world, only to have him die, too.

But he doesn’t actually remember his mother dying. He only remembers Cat crying.

 

277 AL

Edmure Tully doesn’t actually remember his mother, but he never tells his father that. Sometimes his father likes to talk about her. He tells Edmure stories about how Mother would sing to him or play with him on the river bank and let him splash in the water. But when Edmure tries to picture these things, he only sees Cat’s face. She is the one who sings him to sleep and takes him to the river. She wades in with him and holds his hand if the current is too fast or the water too deep. He is always safe with Cat.

Sometimes he gets scared when she’s not around, and Petyr will call him a baby, but he’s not a baby. He’s four years old, and he can count to a hundred and spell his name. Cat taught him. He can spell her name, too. He knows she has a longer name that he can’t spell, but it doesn’t matter because he never calls her that. He’s only ever called her Cat. Except for the one time when he called her Mama and made Lysa yell.

He’d had a bad dream. He used to have lots of bad dreams. He woke up screaming, and Cat rushed into his room. Lysa came, too. Cat put her arms around him, and he grabbed her tight, put his face against her and cried, “Mama, Mama!”

That’s when Lysa started yelling. “She isn’t your mother!” she shouted at him. “You aren’t our mother!” she screamed at Cat. Then she ran out of Edmure’s room and didn’t stop when Cat said her name.

Edmure still doesn’t know why he did that. He knows Cat isn’t Mother because Mother is dead and Cat’s here with him.

Cat didn’t go after Lysa that night. She stayed with him until he fell asleep, but when he woke up it was still dark and she was gone, so he went across the corridor to his sisters’ room. He could see them both in Cat’s bed. Lysa was asleep, curled up tightly against Cat, but Cat wasn’t asleep. She was talking to someone.

“I know I’m not you, Mother. I can never be you. But please help me take care of them. Please help Edmure not be scared. And help Lysa not be angry.”

Edmure decided not to go in and beg Cat to come back to his room. He decided to try not to be scared. He would be brave for Cat.

He still tells himself that when he’s frightened. _Be brave for Cat._

It’s hard to be brave when he hears Father telling Cat something about a man named Brandon Stark, though, especially when Lysa whispers, “Father’s going to make Cat marry Brandon Stark, and then she’ll have to go live in the North where it’s cold all the time forever. I want to marry someone who lives where it’s warm.”

Later, Edmure asks Cat if it’s really true. He can’t believe Father would make her marry someone and go away from them to live in a horrible, cold place.

“It’s true, Edmure,” she says. “But I am only three and ten, and Father says I am not to wed for many years, so don’t worry about it, sweetling. We‘ll be together for years and years.”

Edmure thinks she sounds as unhappy at the prospect of her leaving Riverrun as he is, so he holds her hand and promises he’ll be brave for her.

She smiles at him. Edmure loves Cat’s smile better than anything in the world.

_I can be brave for Cat._

280 AL

As the arrow whistles past the left edge of the target, Brandon Stark’s laughter drifts down onto the archery range. Brandon Stark’s laughter is always too loud. As Edmure rubs his arm which is stinging painfully from being repeatedly hit by the bowstring, he wants to hit Brandon Stark over the head with the bow until he stops laughing. He must have shot a 100 arrows and not one has hit the center of the target. Petyr, beside him, has done much better, but it isn’t really fair because Petyr is twelve and Edmure is only seven.

“That last shot was much better, Edmure,” Catelyn’s voice calls down from where she, Lysa, and Brandon are watching Petyr and he shoot. “It only just missed the left edge and the wind kicked up terribly just as you loosed the arrow!”

Before he can thank her, Lysa calls out as well. “But your last shot was brilliant, Petyr! I don’t know how you managed to hit the center with so much wind. It was blowing much harder for your shot than for Edmure’s!”

Edmure grits his teeth and wishes Lysa would go away. She never laughs at him like Brandon Stark does, but she constantly says nice things about Petyr and never says anything about him at all. She’s his sister, not Petyr’s. And Petyr ignores her most of the time so Edmure doesn’t understand why she tries so hard to be nice to him.

Determined not to give up while they’re up there watching, Edmure notches another arrow, even though the bow now feels three times heavier than when he started. He looks at the target and pulls back. The string slips from his sore fingers when he’s only pulled halfway back, and the arrow splutters forward to fall just in front of his feet.

Brandon laughs even more loudly than before, and Edmure is appalled to feel tears stinging his eyes. He throws the bow to the ground and stalks off the range.

“It isn’t funny, Brandon,” he hears Cat say angrily. “He’s only seven years old!”

He doesn’t hear Brandon’s response because he’s running as quickly as he can away from them. He runs through the trees until he reaches the river bank. Then he starts picking up rocks and throwing them. At first, he just hurls them into the water angrily, but after a bit he begins to search out the flat stones and starts tossing them side arm with a flip of the wrist to make them skip on the water like Cat taught him to do.

As he counts six bounces on one particularly good throw, he hears someone behind him clapping. He turns around to see Cat standing there smiling at him.

“You should challenge Brandon to a rock skipping competition,” she says. “You’d beat him all to pieces and then we could both laugh at him.”

“You can’t laugh at him,” Edmure replies sulkily. “You have to marry him.”

She laughs at that which makes Edmure ridiculously happy. It seems like she only laughs at things Brandon says whenever he comes to visit, and he likes to make her laugh himself. “Oh, I can laugh at him if he deserves it, whether I marry him or not,” she says.

“Why don’t you just laugh at him and not marry him?” Edmure suggests spitefully.

She sighs and walks up to him. “Edmure, Brandon was very rude and I’ve told him he owes you an apology,” she tells him. “But I am going to marry him. Father arranged this betrothal for me, and I am honored by it. Besides,” she says, ruffling his hair, “Brandon really isn’t that bad. I like him, Edmure, and you might, too, if you gave him a chance.”

He shakes his head against her fingers. He likes it when she ruffles his hair, but only when they’re by themselves. Petyr told him it was something grown ladies did to babies, and he isn’t a baby. “Petyr doesn’t like him, either,” he says now.

Cat sighs again. “I’m afraid Petyr doesn’t like anyone anymore,” she says, and Edmure remembers that she and Petyr had some kind of fight right before this visit from Brandon. Petyr had done something Cat didn’t like, although Edmure didn’t know what that was. “You used to like it well enough!” Petyr had shouted at Cat as Edmure came upon them that afternoon. Cat just shook her head. “Petyr, we were all children playing foolish children’s games. We are both too old to behave so now, and I am a woman betrothed.” Edmure doesn’t know what games they were talking about, but he does know that Cat doesn’t play with Lysa and Petyr and him like she used to, and he blames Brandon for that.

“Petyr would like you just fine if you played with us like you used to.”

A strange expression crosses her face briefly at that and she says, “I am six and ten, Edmure. I can’t spend my days having mud fights or skipping stones or having swimming races.”

“But you always win the swimming races,” Edmure coaxes her, and that earns him a smile.

“So, my not racing just gives the rest of you a chance at victory,” she says. “Mayhaps, you’ll find me so dull by the time I wed and go to Winterfell, you won’t even miss me.”

“I will miss you,” Edmure insists. “I don’t want you to go away, Cat. Not ever!”

“Not ever? Not even when I make you go to bed before you want to?” she teases him. “Not even when I force you to eat kale or scold you for skipping your lessons or being horrible to Lysa or Petyr?”

She expects him to laugh or tell her that maybe she should go away, but instead he says simply, “Not even then. I don’t ever want you to go away, Cat, and I think Father is terrible for making you do it.”

“Father isn’t terrible, sweetling,” she says softly. “The Starks are a Great House, and I shall be the Lady of Winterfell. That is a tremendous honor, Edmure, and Father means for me to have it. Arranging a good match is one of the most important things a father can do for his daughters. He’ll do the same for Lysa. He wants good things for us. Eventually, he’ll even help you pick out a maiden that’s worthy to be your wife and the Lady of Riverrun.”

“Why can’t you just stay here and be the Lady of Riverrun? I don’t want to get married.”

She laughs at him and hugs him again. “Of course you don’t now. Just wait a few years. Besides, I heard Father talking to Brandon, and I’m afraid he’s in no hurry to see me wed, so I fear you are stuck with me for awhile yet.”

“Good.” He knows she can tell he is still sulking, though.

“Edmure,” she asks him, quite serious again. “What are our House words?”

“Family, Duty, Honor,” he recites dully.

“Yes,” she said. “And we are Father’s family. He loves us, and it is his duty to see that we bring honor to ourselves and our House.”

He makes a rude noise and looks for another stone to skip.

“I shall always be your sister, Edmure. So will Lysa. Wherever we may live, we will not forget what it means to be a Tully. Family, Duty, Honor. No House has better words to live by.”

Edmure looks at his sister and he thinks that those words somehow sound more impressive when she says them than when anybody else does.

 

282 AL

Cat is crying. There was a raven, Edmure knows, and now his oldest sister sits in their lord father’s solar while Father stands behind her, his hands on her shoulders. It must be dreadful news because Cat doesn’t cry. She has been terribly sad and quiet of late, ever since Brandon Stark’s sister was kidnapped by the prince, and he rode south to get her back. Only, he was imprisoned by the Mad King instead. Edmure doesn’t miss Brandon Stark, but he hates Cat to be sad. And now she is crying and that scares him.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to see Lysa behind him, wild eyed with shock. “Did you hear?” she whispers, and he hears the threat of tears in her hushed voice.

He shakes his head and lets his sister pull him away from the door to Father’s solar, away from Father and Cat. When they get far enough away, Lysa grabs him into an embrace. “Oh, Edmure, it’s terrible!” she exclaims, and actual tears now appear on her face.

Normally, Lysa’s tears don’t frighten Edmure because she does nothing but cry anymore. She’s been like this since stupid Petyr challenged Brandon Stark to some ridiculous duel for Cat’s hand the last time Brandon was here even though Brandon was a man grown and Petyr just barely in his teens. Even Edmure realized how stupid it was. It was also very disrespectful of Cat and Father, who were furious with Petyr over the whole thing. Petyr would have died had Cat not stopped it, and then of course, Father had to send Petyr away. He couldn’t stay at Riverrun after acting so foolishly. But Lysa cried and carried on as if the world was coming to an end. She stopped speaking to Father entirely, and nothing Cat or Edmure could say could get her to stop crying sometimes. So, Edmure is quite used to her tears. Today, however, he fears they mean bad things for Cat.

“Brandon Stark is dead!” Lysa wails.

“What?” Edmure is stunned. He thinks of Cat repeatedly telling him she truly did want to marry Brandon Stark, and thinks of how he still prayed that the man would stay away and not come back to Riverrun. _I never wanted him to die,_ he thinks desperately. He thinks of Cat crying in Father’s solar and feels almost crushed by guilt.

“The Mad King murdered him,” Lysa says dramatically. “Him and Lord Rickard both. And I heard Septa Mordane telling the maester that he’s asked for Brandon’s brother as well.”

Edmure doesn’t stay to hear anything else Lysa might have to say. He runs back to the solar, barging in and rushing to grab Cat’s hands.

“It will be all right, Cat,” he says in his most grown up voice. “I am your family, and I will take care of you.”

“Oh, Edmure,” she says, and she throws her arms around him and holds onto him while she cries.

 _Family, Duty, Honor_ , he thinks. _I can be brave for Cat._

He tries very hard not be happy at all that she will never marry Brandon Stark, and he succeeds most of the time. He never sees her cry about Brandon after that day, but if possible, she becomes even more silent and sad, and ravens continue to bring alarming news. Lord Jon Arryn has refused to hand over Brandon’s brother Eddard Stark, and his other ward, Lord Robert Baratheon. Lord Arryn calls his banners in rebellion against the king, and soon after that word arrives that Lord Robert and Lord Eddard are calling their banners as well. The Stormlands and the North are joining the Vale in rebellion against the Targaryens.

Edmure finds all the talk of war and fighting exciting until the day his lord father gathers them all together to announce that he, too is joining the war, bringing the lords of the Riverlands into the conflict on the side of the rebels. He tells them this alliance is to be sealed with not one, but two marriages. Lysa will wed Lord Arryn and Cat will wed Eddard Stark.

Lysa immediately shouts, “No!” and runs from the solar, but Cat sits quietly, saying nothing.

Father reaches for her hand. “I have heard nothing but good words about young Lord Eddard, Catelyn. He is nearer your age than Brandon was, but a sober man, mature beyond his years. He will make you an honorable husband.”

Cat nodded, still saying nothing.

“You were meant to be a great Lady of Winterfell, my little Cat,” Father says gently.

“Yes, Father,” she says then very quietly. “I will be honored to wed Lord Eddard.”

When she walks from the room, Edmure watches her go, heartbroken. He will still lose his sister to the frozen wasteland Petyr once told him was full of cannibalistic heathen savages that pray to trees and sacrifice children. And now she will have to wed a man she doesn’t even know. Once more he feels guilty for every moment of terrible joy he ever took in the absence of Brandon Stark.

When the two lords arrive at Riverrun to claim their brides, Edmure doesn’t think much of either of them. Brandon was loud and thought himself wonderful and paid no attention to anyone but Cat, but at least he seemed alive. Lord Arryn is an old man, even older than Father, and Lysa cringes when she looks at him. Lord Eddard is nothing like his brother--shorter and plainer of face, and as quiet as Brandon had been noisy, as solemn as Brandon had been smiling. Cat is rather solemn and quiet these days, too, but Edmure knows she is truly made for smiles and warmth, and he fears this frozen faced lord knows nothing of either.

He says as much to her on the day before the wedding, and to his surprise, she lashes out at him. “His father and brother are dead, Edmure, murdered. His sister is kidnapped and he knows not where she is. Do you think you would smile and jape were Father, Lysa and I all lost to you?”

He trembles, hurt by her reaction, and terrified at the thought of his family being taken from him. She looks at him, and her face crumbles. “Oh, Edmure sweetling, forgive me!” She rushes to embrace him. “You are far too young to think on such terrible things. I should not have said that!”

“I am not a baby, Cat,” he protests. “I am nine years old. I know you don’t want to marry this stranger. And his eyes are cold.”

She sighs. “He is a good man, Edmure. He will treat me well. It will be all right.” She pats his hand. “Now, I must go help Lysa see to her maiden cloak. Mine . .” her voice catches only a bit. “Mine was made already, of course, but hers . . .”

Cat leaves the room rather quickly without saying anything else, and Edmure cannot do anything but watch her go.

Edmure hates every minute of the weddings. Lysa had sobbed the entire day, and her eyes are still rimmed with red when Father leads both of the girls into the sept. She manages to stay calm through the ceremony, though, repeating her vows almost as calmly and clearly as Cat. Cat is almost expressionless as she recites her vows to her new husband who is completely expressionless, but both of them stand tall and straight, and unlike Lysa, Cat does not flinch away when Lord Stark places a brief kiss to her lips to seal their vows.

At the feast afterward, Lysa drinks far more wine than Father had ever allowed her before, and Edmure thinks she dances with every man there. The old man she married dances politely with her a few times, and then seems content to watch her giggle in the arms of others. Cat barely dances at all, sitting beside her grim husband and watching others dance. That surprises Edmure because he knows Cat loves to dance. The few times she does dance, he sees her ask the permission of Lord Stark first. While the man always nods graciously, it irritates Edmure. If he isn’t going to do her the courtesy of dancing with her, he should have no say in who else she dances with.

Edmure asks Cat to dance, not caring that he always looks such a little boy beside his tall sister. When she tells him he is becoming an accomplished dancer, he knows she lies because he can’t seem to keep from stepping on her feet, but he loves the compliment anyway. He always loves praise from Cat, whether he deserves it or not.

When their dance is finished, he realizes that most everyone has eaten their fill, and many have drunk more than their fill. There is a certain restlessness in the hall and he sees that Cat senses it, too.

“Come with me,” she says and leads him by the hand to where Lord Stark still sits, motionless and grey as a statue. “My lord,” she says courteously when she reaches him. “If you would permit me, I would like to take my brother to his chambers before . . .before he is up too late.”

“Of course, my lady,” the man says with more kindness in his voice than Edmure has previously heard.

Edmure starts to protest, but then he sees the slight coloring of her cheeks and realizes why she wants him gone from the hall. He may be only nine, but he has heard plenty talk in the castle of what is done to the new husbands and wives at the end of a wedding feast. As he cannot stop any of this, he decides he would rather not see his sisters suffer it, and for once Edmure Tully does not protest being led away to bed.

When they reach his room, Cat does not hurry away as she would normally do had she left a celebration to chase him to bed, and Edmure realizes she doesn’t truly want to go back.

“You can stay here, Cat,” he says suddenly. “You can stay with me all night if you like. Family, Duty, Honor, remember? You’re my family and it’s my duty to protect you.”

She smiles at him. “I know you will always protect me, Edmure. And I love you for it.” She kisses his forehead and stands up very straight. “But Lord Eddard is my family now, too. And tonight, my duty is to him.”

As she walks from his room, Edmure thinks his sister has never looked more beautiful or more brave.

 

283 AL

Cat is screaming. She is crying out as if she is being ripped apart, and Edmure is terrified. No one will let him go into her room, and no one will tell him anything.

Finally, he sees Lysa emerge from the room and he grabs at her desperately. “Is Cat dying?” he asks, wide eyed with fear.

“What? No!” she huffs. “She’s having a baby, Edmure. Apparently, it hurts.” Lysa pushes past him to say something to a maid who stands just down the corrridor.

He isn’t a baby. He knows that women die in the childbed sometimes. Their own mother did, although he doesn’t remember much about it. _Cat was crying._ He mustn’t think on that.

As Lysa returns, he grabs at her again. “Please, Lysa, tell me. Is she really all right?”

Lysa looks almost angry, but then she looks that way often anymore. “Yes, Edmure. She is really all right. She’s Catelyn. Nothing bad ever happens to her.” She breaks free of his grip and opens the door to Cat’s room again just as another painful cry emanates from inside it.

 _Bad things can happen to Cat,_ he thinks miserably. Mother died. Brandon died. He sinks down to the floor and leans against the wall of the corridor to wait.

He isn’t certain how long it is before he hears a new sound, the plaintive cries of a newborn babe. Amidst the general joyous shouts coming from Cat’s room, he clearly hears his sister’s voice, sounding exhausted but thrilled. “A boy! I have a son! Look at him, Lysa! He’s perfect!”

Silently, Edmure bows his head and thanks the gods that this babe did not kill Cat as his long dead little brother had killed Mother.

At first, Edmure hates the baby. Cat names it Robb because she thinks it will please her grim faced husband to have it named for his friend who would be king. She barely puts it down and won’t leave it with anyone. She keeps it with her all the time and barely looks at anyone else. Edmure begins to think she might as well have gone to Winterfell as stayed in Riverrun for all he sees of her.

He spends his time working on his swordsmanship and archery. After all, he is ten years old. If this war goes on very long, he might be able to squire for someone. Lysa laughs at the idea, but at least she listens to him talk which is more than Cat does now. Lysa spends more time with him now, and at first he thought she disliked the baby as much as he does, but the more he watches her, he thinks it’s something else. He feels awful for even thinking it, but as much as he wishes the baby were not here, he gets the impression that Lysa wishes Cat were not here, and he doesn’t understand that. Lysa has always depended on Cat as much as he has.

He stands on the archery range and takes careful aim at the target. When the arrow flies straight and true, landing solidly in the center of the target, he jumps in the air with a cry of triumph. That was three in a row. He hears applause above and behind him and whirls around, hoping to find Cat there, but it is Lysa who stands there clapping.

“Well done, Edmure,” she says.

“Thank you!” he beams at her, feeling guilty because she’s being so nice and he still wishes she were their sister.

“When Father comes home, he’ll no doubt be very pleased with you.” There is a nasty undertone to her voice. It’s there whenever she mentions Father, and Edmure doesn’t understand, but he tries to ignore it.

“I’m going to go tell Cat that I hit three in a row!” he tells her.

She shrugs. “Go ahead. But she won’t care.” She turns away then as if he has said something wrong, and Edmure wonders if he will ever be able to just have a conversation with either of his sisters again.

When he enters Cat’s room, he sees that the babe is actually sleeping in its cradle instead of on his sister. She sits beside the cradle sewing something, but she looks up as he comes in.

“Edmure,” she says softly, smiling as if she is genuinely pleased to see him.

“I’ve been shooting, Cat! And I hit it dead center three times in a row. Three times in a row!!”

The expression on her face turns to one of alarm and she raises a finger to her lips. “Shh! Edmure, you must be quiet or you’ll wake him,” she whispers rather harshly.

The excitement of the archery range drains from him, and he turns to go without another word. Her voice, still soft, but not a whisper stops him.

“Edmure, stay.” He turns to look at her. “I do want to hear about it,” she tells him. “I want to hear every word. It’s only that if you wake him then he’ll be hungry, and I’ll have to feed him, and if I’m feeding him, I won’t really be listening and . . . I just want to talk with my brother. All right?”

He looks at her a moment and then nods.

“Come here,” she says, patting a chair beside hers. “Sit close and we can hear each other without raising our voices.”

He sits beside his sister and tells her of his exploits on the range and swells with pride when he sees the pride on her face. “Of course, I am not surprised,” she tells him. “You practice archery diligently, and practice always leads to improvement.” She ruffles his hair. “If only you’d practice your penmanship as often as you do your shooting, perhaps someone could actually read the words you write.”

He laughs out loud to hear her tease him again, but then the babe in the cradle makes a noise and he jumps, staring at it as if it were a venomous serpent.

“Do you want to hold him?” she asks him.

“Me?” he says, startled.

“Yes,” she laughs. “That’s not a hungry noise. He may go back down if he’s just held a moment.” She goes to the cradle and lifts the babe out. Before Edmure can protest, she lays it in his arms.

He just stares at it for a moment. “Uh, hello, Robb,” he says finally. The babe stares up at him, almost unblinking and he realizes the eyes are same color as his and his sisters’. He has their auburn hair as well. “He looks like a Tully,” he tells Cat.

“Indeed he does.” She smiles at him. “More specifically, he looks like Edmure Tully.”

“Me?” he says again, sounding exactly as he had before.

She laughs just as she did before as well, and he realizes how much he’s missed the sound of her laugh. “Yes, you,” she says definitely. “Most men seem to think that all babies look somewhat alike, but they don’t. No more than you and Lysa and I look just alike.”

“Well, you and Lysa are girls,” he says.

“Yes, that does make a difference,” she says grinning at him. “But we’re easy enough to tell apart, even if it’s obvious to anyone that we are both Tullys. And, truthfully, Lysa looks more like Father than you do if you look closely in spite of the fact that she’s a girl.”

Edmure thinks about that carefully and nods agreement. “And you think little Robb here looks more like me than like you?”

“Most definitely,” she tells him. “You’ll see it more as he gets older. I can remember you as a baby, Edmure, and the first time I laid eyes on my perfect little son I thought, ‘He’s the image of my brother.’”

He watches her face as she speaks, and it isn’t still or sad or solemn. It’s lit up with expression the way Cat’s face is meant to be, and he can see in that face that his sister thinks having her son be the image of him is a wonderful thing. The grin which comes to his own face then starts slowly but spreads wide before he looks down at his tiny nephew. “You’re going to do great things, Robb Stark,” he tells him. “Your Uncle Edmure says so.”

When he looks up, Cat is smiling at him, and her eyes are shiny. “I want you to be close to him, Edmure. It will be more difficult when we’re at Winterfell, but we’ll write often. That’s why you must work on your penmanship!”

“I will, Cat,” he promises.

“You are good boy, Edmure. And not so much a boy anymore at all. You will be a great lord one day.”

The babe grows restless in his arms, and she takes him from him. “I know I haven’t been paying you enough attention lately, and I’m sorry. It’s . . .I can’t explain it really. Something happens to you when you have a babe.” She looks down at little Robb with the tenderest expression Edmure has ever seen on her face, and he suddenly wishes they could just stay like that. Cat, Robb, and him, together at Riverrun forever.

After that, Edmure finds himself spending time with his infant nephew daily. He still gets annoyed with Cat’s preoccupation, but he understands it better as he comes to love the little boy himself, and he fusses over Robb’s first smile, first laugh, first time rolling over as much as Cat does.

Months later, when word arrives of the final victory and Lord Stark’s imminent return to Winterfell, and Catelyn begins to pack for her own journey north, Edmure realizes he will miss his little nephew almost as much as he’ll miss Cat.

He cries when Lysa rides out for King’s Landing with Lord Arryn’s men. He has never been without either of his sisters and he’ll miss her terribly.

The next day, as Cat and her escort prepare to ride out as well, he cries again when Septa Mordane takes Robb from his arms. As their Uncle Brynden would be with Lysa, their lord father had decreed that their septa should accompany Cat north. That way, she will have at least one person in Winterfell who shares her gods. The septa doesn’t mention the tears in his eyes as he gives Robb up to her and Edmure is glad of that.

When Cat comes to embrace him, he does not cry. He simply holds her tightly as if that might force a part of her to stay with him. His eyes remain dry as she mounts up to ride away as well, taking her son from the septa and swaddling him against her.

He doesn’t look away until he can no longer see any trace of her party on the River Road and he realizes why he hasn’t cried. No tears could ever express the grief or loneliness or sense of being lost that he feels as Cat, who has been both sister and mother to him all his life, rides away from her life at Riverrun with him forever.

 

290 AL

 _At least he didn’t bring the bastard,_ Edmure thinks rather uncharitably as he regards his goodbrother. Lord Stark is conversing with Edmure’s father, and Edmure thinks the man looks to have aged far more than eight years since he saw him last.

Cat hasn’t. He turns his gaze on his sister and his expression warms. His sister is as beautiful as ever. Years in the cold north have not frozen her. He smiles as he recalls how she’d cried out his name and spurred her horse ahead of the entire Stark party when they’d ridden up to Riverrun earlier today.

It had been seven years since he’d seen her. First one thing and then the other had kept either from visiting. Stark kept putting babes in Cat’s belly for one thing, and then he went off to fight with Robert Baratheon again during the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Cat says this visit is the result of a promise her husband made her before that Rebellion, and they’ve only been waiting for the littlest one, Arya her name is, to put her first name day behind her and for summer to truly arrive before undertaking the journey.

She looks well enough, in spite of living in a frozen wilderness with a coldhearted husband who uses her like a broodmare while he keeps the bastard child of some secret paramour under her roof beside her trueborn children. If his nephew has mentioned the bastard once, he’s spoken of him at least twenty times, and it makes Edmure want to put his fist through Eddard Stark’s frozen face. It isn’t Robb’s fault, of course. What does Robb know of bastards or honor? He’s seven years old.

“Uncle Edmure!” comes the boyish voice from Edmure’s side and he smiles down at his nephew. Cat was right about him as an infant. Edmure can easily see the resemblance between the two of them now, and he takes a ridiculous amount of pride in it, standing taller every time someone at Riverrun mentions it.

“What is it, lad?” he asks the boy.

“Will you take me to shoot with a bow tomorrow? Father always says I’m too little to handle a bow properly, but Mother says you started practicing at my age, and I know that if you invite me, Father won’t say no, so I wondered if you might . ..”

Edmure laughs and ruffles the boy’s hair in a gesture reminiscent of the way Cat once did his. “Of course, Robb! We’ll head to the range as soon as we break our fast before anyone is there.” He leans in conspiratorially. “When I was seven, I was terrible! Did your mother tell you that?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Well, I was. We’ll go and shoot while no one is there in case I have a bad day tomorrow.” He hopes Robb won’t be too disappointed when he doesn’t hit anything. In truth, Eddard Stark is correct. A seven year old is too young to handle the bows well, but that shouldn’t stop him from trying.

“Another lemoncake, my lady? Where does such a dainty creature put them all?” Edmure looks up at the sound of his father’s voice. Cat’s little Sansa is seated on his lap, and Lord Hoster is obviously enchanted by her. Of course, he would be. If Robb favors Edmure, four year old Sansa is the very image of Cat. And she’s an impossibly beguiling little mixture of wide-eyed childish excitement and perfect courtesy worthy of a lady of the royal court. No one would ever take Cat’s daughter for a northern savage.

He looks again at his sister who is looking at her daughter and father together with such obvious love and pride that Edmure finds his throat feeling tight. She obviously takes great joy and pride in her children, and mayhaps that has been enough to bring her comfort in this life she has been given to lead. Cat seems even to adore the little one, who had to be removed from the feast an hour ago because she’d taken to howling like an actual wolf pup. Cat had left her own meal and seen to the child herself which didn’t surprise Edmure at all though he hated that she had to miss any part of this wonderful evening. She is here now, though, and she catches him looking at her, returning his smile with one of her own. He has missed Cat’s smiles.

Most are finished eating now, and his father calls for the musicians to begin. Edmure smiles as his father hands little Sansa to Lord Stark and then takes Cat by the hand to lead her to the dance floor. She won’t be left sitting for the first dance tonight.

His father tires easily though, and soon he and Cat return to their seats. Edmure has been dancing with the overly talkative daughter of one his father’s bannermen, but as soon as he sees that his sister is free, he excuses himself from her company to claim his sister’s hand. She looks to her lord husband before she accepts just as she did all those years ago, but Edmure sees that she smiles at the Northman and touches his hand before she allows her brother to lead her to the floor.

“At least I won’t step on your feet tonight, Cat,” he says as he spins her around smoothly.

“No,” she laughs. “You have improved tremendously.” She smiles up at him. “I cannot get used to your being taller than I am.”

He laughs. “Neither can Father.”

“You are a bit taller than Father,” she agrees. “But I don’t think you’re quite as tall as Uncle Brynden.

Edmure shrugs. In truth, he doesn’t remember their uncle’s appearance in great detail. Even certain details of Lysa’s face have faded with the years. But he could always close his eyes and see Cat just as if she were here with him. And now she is.

“What is it?” she asks him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m only glad to have you home,” he says.

She smiles. “I am glad to be here,” she says. “It is so good to see you and Father. I have missed the two of you.”

He notices she says ‘here’ rather than ‘home.’ “How was Lysa when you saw her?” He knows that Cat and her husband traveled to King’s Landing once, but cannot remember when it was.

“It has been years,” Cat says, “But honestly, I worry about her, Edmure. She was so hopeful she would have a child by now. Even when I saw her, she seemed somehow desperate.” She shook her head. “I have asked her to come and stay at Winterfell, and I know her lord husband would allow her to visit, but she will not come.”

“Mayhaps, she will come to Riverrun if I ask her,” Edmure says, thinking that Lysa may not want to spend time with Cat’s ever growing brood while she remained childless.

“Mayhaps,” Cat replies thoughtfully.

Edmure regrets darkening the mood, and so he picks his sister up then, twirling her in the air, and Cat’s laughter rings across the hall and into his heart.

They dance for song after song until she finally says she must return to her husband. He frowns at that, for he knows she’s enjoyed herself. Why should she stop? But he says nothing, merely escorting her back to the High Table.

As she seats herself once more beside that iceblock of a husband, Edmure notices little Sansa bouncing up and down on her grandfather’s lap in time to the music. “Would you care to dance, my lady niece?” he asks her with a formal bow.”

She giggles and jumps to him, and he carries her out to the dance floor, where he holds her high in the air as he spins her around.

He keeps her out on the floor for two songs during which time he looks up to the High Table to see that Cat and her husband have their heads close together, discussing something. _So he can speak to her, at least._

When the song ends, Cat motions to him, and he carries his niece back to the table, her little head resting tiredly on his shoulder.

“I think it’s past time I take the children to bed,” she says.

“I’ll carry Sansa for you,” he says. “She’s half asleep on my shoulder already.”

Cat goes to retrieve Robb who had managed to disappear when bedtime was mentioned, and Edmure waits for her listening to Lord Stark and his father speak of their days in the Rebellion. Well, Father speaks. Lord Stark listens. The man doesn’t seem to talk about himself very much.

When Cat brings Robb along with a very dejected look on his face, she points to him. “Look,” she says to Edmure. “I’ve dealt with that precise face my entire life. First you, now him. You’d think I was taking the two of you to the gallows.”

Edmure smiles at his nephew and watches him walk along behind his mother. Once they reach the room where the Stark children are to sleep, he lays the completely unconscious Sansa on her bed and waits for Cat while she helps get Robb undressed and into his own bed with a kiss and a hug.

Back in the corridor, he smiles at her. “He’s not as bad as I was.”

“He isn’t?”

“No. I made terrible faces at you behind your back all the way to my room,” he tells her with a grin. “Robb doesn’t do that.”

“That’s good to know.”

“They are beautiful, Cat. Your children. Robb and Sansa are delightful.”

She looks at him carefully. “Arya is delightful, as well. And beautiful.”

Edmure tries to phrase his next words carefully. “She looks rather like her father, the little one. Do think she’ll be . . .like him?”

There is a definite edge to her voice when she replies. “Like him? How do you mean?”

“Well, you and the other two are so warm and lovely and . . .”

“And you imply that my lord husband is what, exactly, Edmure? Cold? Unlovely?”

He’s made her angry, and he didn’t mean to. “No! It’s just . . .are you happy, Cat? Is he kind to you?”

“Where does this come from, Edmure?”

 _You weren’t happy to find the bastard there._ He thinks it but he does not say it. He was young when those early letters came for Father from Winterfell. He didn’t understand all of it, but he knew well enough what a bastard was, and he knew his sister was unhappy. “He . . .he does seem cold,” he finally says. “He refuses even to dance with you!”

At that, Cat surprises him by laughing out loud. “He doesn’t refuse,” she says finally. “Ned can’t dance. He’s terrible. Truly terrible at it.”

 _Ned? She called him Ned?_ Edmure has never heard her call her husband anything other than ‘my lord.’

“He will dance with me if I ask,” she continues, “but I know how uncomfortable it makes him, so I rarely do.” She gives a tiny smile then, almost more to herself than to him. “And when any man dances with me for too many songs, he comes out to the floor to take me from him. He has to dance with me then or appear discourteous.” She laughs again. “It is fortunate you are my brother, Edmure, or he’d have certainly taken me from you tonight.”

Edmure starts to protest her lord husband controlling her in such a high handed manner, but the expression on her face as she tells him these things looks suspiciously like affection, and he wonders if perhaps she has come to a certain peace with the marriage she has. She certainly loves her children, and if the man is not cruel or openly disrespectful of her, mayhaps she has found contentment.

“Well, I suspect the musicians are still playing, Cat, and as it seems I am an unobjectionable partner for you in Lord Stark’s eyes, I would be happy to dance more if you would.”

She smiles and takes his arm, tiptoeing up to kiss his cheek before he leads her back to the hall.

The Starks remain in Riverrun a fortnight, and while Edmure tries to simply enjoy his sister and her family, he finds himself already dreading their departure as the days dwindle down. As he watches Cat’s husband with her and the children, he grudgingly begins to acknowledge that mayhaps the man is more reserved than truly cold, although he still seems far too emotionless for someone like Cat. He rarely smiles, and when they’ve been there nearly ten days, Edmure has yet to hear a real laugh from him. Cat is as warm and welcoming as Riverrun’s godswood in summer, and it saddens Edmure that she would have to cool that part of herself to find peace with this man.

So, when he stumbles upon two people in that godswood, arms wrapped so tightly around each other that it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins, he does not even register the long copper hair at first. He’s been caught in the godswood with various girls himself, and he knows how embarrassing that can be so he begins to make a quiet retreat when he’s stopped by the sound of his goodbrother’s voice, breathless and filled with a depth of emotion he didn’t think the man possessed.

“Gods, you are beautiful, Cat!”

 _Cat? Only family ever calls her Cat!_ Unbidden, the memory of her words to him on her long ago wedding night return to him. _Lord Eddard is my family now, too._ He swallows hard as he stares disbelievingly at his sister and her Northern lord, sharing a kiss that speaks nothing of duty. He’s kissed plenty girls by now who were more than willing to teach him of passion, but he thinks he’s never had a kiss like this.

The man’s hands are all over her, and when Cat makes a sound deep in her throat and then exhales with her breath forming the word ‘Ned’, Edmure turns and flees the godswood as if he is pursued. He spends the rest of the day trying very hard not to think about what happened there after he left, although he has little doubt about it.

From that point, when he watches them, he sees no outward differences in their interactions, but he starts to notice very subtle things about the way their eyes meet and their hands touch, and he realizes his sister’s marriage may be far different than he’d believed.

When Cat catches him with a pretty chambermaid in a dark corridor two nights before the Starks are to return home and lectures him about propriety, he cannot resist. “Oh that’s right, Septa. Tell me how sinful I am, because you, of course, would never have a passionate encounter in a corridor, or, gods forbid, outdoors in the godswood!”

The color that creeps into her cheeks and the look of sheer panic appearing on her normally composed face as he looks directly in her eyes and says the word godswood is something Edmure Tully will cherish a long time. She doesn’t tell their father about the chambermaid either.

The visit looks to be heading for a successful conclusion until Hoster Tully calls both Edmure and Lord Stark into his solar the day before the Starks are to leave and proposes to Lord Stark that he send his bastard to be fostered in the Riverlands with one of his bannermen.

At first, Edmure is stunned, wondering why his father would ever wish to aid this boy, this stain on his sister’s marriage, in any way. Slowly, he realizes that Lord Hoster is simply living by the Tully words as he always has. _Family, Duty, Honor._ Cat was his family, and Father would do his duty to her by removing this bastard from her home even if it meant pledging his own honor to do good things for the boy. As the ward of a noble house in the Riverlands, even as a bastard, he would have more opportunity than he would at Winterfell.

As Edmure is coming to terms with this, and realizing how much he loves his father for it, he realizes that Eddard Stark has turned down the offer flat.

“What do you mean, no?” he explodes.

“The boy must remain at Winterfell,” Lord Stark says in that cold, icy voice that likely freezes most men in their tracks. It does not freeze Edmure. He is too angry.

“You do not deserve her!” he shouts. “You dishonor my sister with your bastard. My lord father offers you a better chance for the whelp than he’ll ever find elsewhere, and you refuse so that you can continue to flaunt him in Cat’s face! You do not deserve her!”

He turns on his heel and leaves the other two men staring after him. He goes directly to Cat’s room where he finds her packing.

“He does not deserve you!” he shouts, repeating what he’d said to her husband. “He treats you shamefully, and you just let him. It isn’t right, Cat!”

“What are you talking about, Edmure?”

“I’m talking about Eddard Bloody Stark! You deserve better than that whoremonger!”

“Whoremonger?” The sting of her hand on his cheek took him by surprise. “If you ever speak so disgracefully about my lord husband again, Edmure Tully, I will tell him that he might call you out, brother or no!”

“How can you defend him, Cat? After what he’s done to you?”

“What he’s done to me? Wed me? Made me the Lady of Winterfell? Given me children? Cared for me? Honored me?”

“Saddled you with his bastard?” Edmure spits at her, interrupting her litany of good things done by Eddard Stark.

She goes very quiet. “Oh,” she says finally. “That.”

“Yes,” he says angrily. “That.”

She looks at him a moment. “Edmure,” she says finally. “You’ve known my husband has a bastard for a good number of years. Why does it concern you so today?”

Edmure is amazed by the control in her voice. It takes him a bit longer to calm his own, but he tells her of the events in their lord father’s solar. “Why, Cat?” he asks when he finishes. “Why won’t he let him be fostered?”

“I do not know,” she says quietly.

“You do not know?”

“I do not know,” she repeats more angrily. “He will not tell me, so I no longer ask.”

“Has he told you of the boy’s mother?”

“No.”

“Cat, how can you trust him in anything?”

“Because I know him, Edmure!” she shouts. More quietly, she repeats it. “I know him, and he does not lie to me. He keeps this secret, and I must accept that. I won’t pretend to like it, but I have no choice. And I would rather have this one secret between us, terrible as it is, than a thousand little lies.”

“He disregards you,” he tells her, looking down and shaking his head.

“He loves me.”

Edmure’s head snaps up at that, and he wonders if perhaps he as misheard her.

“He loves me,” she repeats, “And I love him. Would I have the bastard gone if I could? Yes. Would I have him tell me of the boy’s mother? Yes. I don’t know her name or what she was to him, and sometimes that drives me mad. I can only surmise that he loved her because he certainly loves the boy.”

“But . . .if you know that he loved her . . .”

She sighs. “She is not at Winterfell whoever she was, Edmure. I cannot dwell on things I cannot know. I do know Ned has been faithful to me since I have been at Winterfell.” She waves a hand at his frank look of disbelief. “I know there are no lies between us, Edmure, only secrets. I know him . . .and I know he loves me, just as I know I love him.”

“He hurt you,” Edmure says in a voice he fears sounds like a child’s.

“He did,” she acknowledges. “He hurt me very badly.” She walks to him and ruffles his hair like she did when he was little, although she has to reach up to do it now. “You are not a child, Edmure, but you are still a very young man. I don’t expect you to understand, but I have learned that sometimes your sorrow and pain lead eventually to the greatest joy you’ll ever know.”

“You have joy of him then, Cat?” he asks her, remembering the way she laughed at his refusal to dance, the way they seem to accidently on purpose touch each other more frequently than he had realized, the way he had said her name in the godswood.

She smiles. “I have more joy than I ever knew was possible.”

He nods slowly. “Then I shall be happy for you.”

When Cat rides out of Riverrun the next day beside Eddard Stark, Edmure smiles at her. “Try not to wait another seven years before coming back again, all right?” he tells her.

She smiles. “I’ll try. You come to Winterfell as well.”

“I will.”

 

298 AL

In fact, it is eight years before she returns to Riverrun, and she arrives a shattered woman. Edmure had gone to visit Winterfell in the intervening years, taking his father to see Cat’s new children as they’d come--first Bran, and then Rickon. He’d seen her in the northern fortress she’d made her home, watched her with her husband and children, shining like the sun amid the wolves of the North. She remained forever a Tully, just as she had said she would, but he came to realize she had become a Stark as well, as much of the North as she is of the Riverlands, and joined as closely to her lord husband as he’d ever seen a husband and wife.

So, when she falls into his arms at Riverrun, having learned that Eddard Stark had been murdered in King’s Landing, he knows how broken she is. Not that she shows it. She stands tall beside her son, the son to whom he owes his own freedom, the son who is quickly crowned king by his northmen and to whom Edmure gladly bends the knee and pledges fealty for the Riverlands. He can think of no better king than a son of Cat and Eddard Stark.

He watches her advise Robb and stand up to the men, and he loves her for it. When she advises him, he feels a child scolded and sometimes resents her for it. He at least is honest enough to acknowledge that is unfair on his good days.

As early victories give way to missteps, betrayals, and defeats, and the crown weighs heavily on his nephew, he sees his sister valiantly try to shoulder her son’s burdens as well as her own, even when he resists her help. Part of Edmure wants to grab Robb and shake him, to tell him he must listen to Cat. She has an aggravating habit of being right. Part of him understands Robb, and knows that listening to Cat can be difficult and even painful at times. Always, though, he watches her carefully, wondering how long she can remain upright under so many burdens.

As if losing her husband is not enough, her younger sons are murdered, one daughter missing, and one daughter enslaved in marriage to the Lannister Imp. Their lord father dies, and her last son is beset by troubles.

Edmure knows he doesn’t always do what she would have him do. He probably never will. But he will not leave her. Her northern wolves are lost or scattered. Her northern home is burned. But Riverrun is her home, too. And whatever else he had done for good or for ill, he is her family. He will protect her.

 

299 AL

Cat is staring at him sightlessly. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her, beautiful face mutilated almost beyond recognition, the gash in her throat gaping obscenely, her hair a tangled mass of red, and those blue, blue eyes open and staring at nothing. The horse could carry him away from the Twins, away from Riverrun, but it could not carry him away from her eyes. Not ever.

She’d been so proud of him when he’d agreed to the wedding, and her pride had made him as happy as it did when he was a boy. She’d been happy for him, too, when he’d realized how fair his bride was. She’d scolded him about how unimportant such things were, but when he looked at her once he’d seen Roslin, he could see she was happy for him.

Guilt stabs at him. _I should be dead! Not Cat. Never Cat!_ They’d killed her son as well. The king. The boy who Cat said looked like Edmure. _I should be dead instead. What have I done to deserve life?_

He glances at the woman who rides beside him. His wife. The traitorous bitch who bedded him while his sister was brutally murdered. The helpless girl who cried as he bedded her because she had no words that could stop the butchery. His opinion of her vacillates between those extremes so often that he finds he has no real opinion of her at all. He looks at the bulge which is becoming more obvious in her belly. For that bulge, he has given up Riverrun to the Kingslayer. _For my son. Or my daughter._

He hears Cat’s voice. _I can’t explain it really. Something happens to you when you have a babe._ He remembers how he treated Cat when she’d given up the Kingslayer for the sake of her daughters. Now, he has given up Riverrun for an unborn half-Frey. _Forgive me, Cat._

They have ridden for many long days. Casterly Rock now rises up on the horizon. Here, he and Roslin are to begin their life as prisoners. He doesn’t give a damn about Roslin or himself, but he hopes the bloody Kingslayer keeps his word about the child. He doesn’t know if he can truly love a half a Frey. But he cannot wish harm on half a Tully.

 

309 AL

“It’s a girl!” He hears the words ring out, and he cannot keep himself out of the room any longer. He rushes in to see the maester holding up a crying babe, the soft red hair on her head shining in the sunlight from the window. Edmure takes the child from the maester, and she quiets in his arms.

“Another daughter, my lord. Are you pleased?”

The sound of his wife’s voice takes Edmure’s attention from the babe’s face. “I am well pleased, my lady,” he says softly. He goes to lay the babe in Roslin’s arms and presses a kiss to her forehead. Once he would not have thought either the babe or the kiss possible.

As he looks at his wife and newborn daughter, the past invades the present, and he is back at Casterly Rock, hearing word of Minisa’s birth from a guard. He’d refused to have anything to do with Roslin since their arrival there and refused to see Minisa for the first two weeks of her life. When he finally had seen her and held her, he was reminded of Robb’s birth at Riverrun, and how it felt to hold him and be connected to him even as a boy uncle. What he felt as a father outstripped that by an infinite amount.

Roslin was a good mother, he was forced to admit, and she loved Minisa forcefully. She reminded him of Cat in that, and as they both loved their babe, they developed a tolerance for each other.

The Kingslayer had kept his word about treating them well at Casterly Rock for the rest of his life, although that turned out to be not very long. He was killed mysteriously early in the Dragon War, some time after the arrival of Aegon, but before the arrival of Daenerys and her dragons. Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen fought like the dragons on their sigil, and the Seven Kingdoms bled, as Aegon demanded sole control of the throne and Daenerys insisted he was an imposter. Eventually, he proved his Targaryen blood to his aunt’s satisfaction by capturing and riding one of her dragons, and the Dragon War ended when they married each other in true Targaryen fashion and took the throne jointly.

Edmure and Roslin had been largely left alone at Casterly Rock, as it turns out that Tyrion Lannister had come back with Daenerys and she’d given the Rock to him. As he saw no reason to kill them, they remained alive.

No sooner had the question of the Iron Throne been settled, when the new monarchs took their dragons north to battle a new threat, some fell monsters of the far north invading from beyond the Wall. Surprisingly, a third Targaryen had been discovered there--the bastard of Eddard Stark, who it seems was neither Eddard Stark’s son nor a bastard.

Edmure had wished Cat could have known that when he heard it. She deserved to know the truth her husband had kept from her. Yet, even then, he could hear her own words to him, and he knew she’d already had the only truth she actually needed. _I know him . . .and I know he loves me, just as I know I love him._

At some point during all the chaos, virtually Roslin’s whole family had been massacred at the Twins, and she wept bitterly for some of her siblings although she stated coldly that her father had gotten no more than he deserved. The massacre had been carried out by band of outlaws led by a mysterious woman called Stoneheart. It was said that after the Freys were dead, she ordered the Twins put to the fire, and then walked into the blaze herself, never to emerge.

The last surprising development had been the discovery of Cat’s daughter Sansa, hidden away in the Vale by Petyr Baelish, of all people. According to Sansa, who had written to Edmure, Petyr had murdered Lysa. Edmure had a hard time believing that, but considering everything else that had happened, he supposed it was possible. In any event, the man was dead, although Sansa was not terribly forthcoming with details about that.

It was Sansa who had demanded that Riverrun be given back to the Tullys. She had asked her bastard brother turned Targaryen cousin to petition the King and Queen about it, and thus Edmure had found himself removed back to his home with his wife and daughter.

They’ve been back at Riverrun four years now. He looks at Roslin and can barely remember how it felt to despise her. They had gone through hell together, and both had lost everything except each other. Mayhaps, that’s what drew them back together--the simple fact that they had no other choices. Slowly, they learned to care for each other, and Hoster was born two years after they arrived back at Riverrun.

Edmure smiles at the thought of his older daughter and son. Minisa is nearly ten years old and such a grown up little lady. She is somewhere in the castle, minding her little brother and awaiting word of their new sibling. “Someone, go get our children,” he says to no one in particular, and Roslin smiles as one of the girls in the room leaves to find them.

“This one’s a Tully,” she tells him, looking at their daughter.

Edmure nods. Both his older children have Roslin’s coloring and features which she got from her mother rather than the Freys, thank the gods.

She looks up at him hesitantly. “Edmure,” she says.

“What, my lady?”

“Shall we call her Catelyn?”

Again, the past invades. Roslin had asked about naming Minisa after his sister, and Edmure had shouted that no child of his sister’s murderer would ever carry her name. He’d been a bitter, broken, angry man, and he’d done his best to crush Roslin beneath his own pain. She’d been hurt terribly, but his resilient wife had simply named their firstborn after his mother instead.

He looks at her now and thinks about how far they’ve come.

“Edmure?” Roslin asks again softly. “Shall we name our daughter Catelyn?”

He hears Cat’s voice as he so often does, and the words she speaks to him now go directly through his heart. _I have learned that sometimes your sorrow and pain lead eventually to the greatest joy you’ll ever know._

“I understand, Cat,” he whispers softly.

“What?” Roslin asks.

He smiles at her. “Yes,” he says. “It’s the perfect name for her.”

Roslin smiles back down at the babe. “Catelyn,” she says, “A beautiful name for our beautiful girl.”

Edmure reaches for his daughter, and Roslin hands her back to him. He looks down into the clear, unblinking blue eyes that study him, and smiles. “Hello, little Cat.”


End file.
